by Jo Raven
I don’t need anyone, in fact, neither woman or guy. I’m perfectly fine on my own.
She had tears in her eyes the last time she was here. I put those tears there. I was…
No. She’ll get over it. And I don’t even fucking care. I don’t care about her.
Or Riddick.
Rubbing at my temples, trying to chase away the nowadays permanent headache drumming inside my skull and beating at the back of my eyes, I do my best to focus on my work. My supervisor has dumped more clients, more accounts on me, and I’ve taken them and kept my mouth shut.
A promotion, I tell myself. If I do this, I’ll get promoted.
And since when do I care about getting promoted? What the hell does it matter to me? I don’t need the money, or the extra stress.
Bowing my head, I forge on, jaw clenched so tight it might explain the headache. Or maybe it’s the way my teeth are gritting.
I make it five days, five fucking long days before I break. As I walk through the office, I tell myself I’m not looking for a girl with ginger curls and hazel eyes. I think I see her curvy figure by the watercooler, but it’s not her.
Later, heading to a meeting, I think I see her talking to a guy I never met, but it turns out it’s not her, either.
That’s it, I’m going nuts. She’s nowhere to be found.
Not that I’m searching. Hell, no.
And when I finally run into her at the office cafeteria, she doesn’t seem to notice me.
She’s dressed in a short skirt that shows off her miles of long legs, made longer by her high-heeled pumps. A gray blazer over a black turtleneck shows off her bright hair and oval face. She’s…fuck, she’s beautiful.
And I must be invisible, because she doesn’t see me as I grab a coffee right beside her. I stare, and she doesn’t feel it.
She turns away to talk to a girl from the administration, and I’m left gazing at her ass. Her damn sexy ass, barely covered by that short skirt.
A guy at one of the crowded tables is staring at her ass, too, and heat floods my chest, crawling up my neck. My hands curl into fists.
Only I had been holding a cup full of coffee, which I forgot in the sudden urge to beat the guy’s face in, and it crashes to the floor, spilling coffee everywhere, including my pants.
Jesus Fuck.
And worst of all? She doesn’t even turn. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t notice.
She’s not pretending.
It’s as if I ceased to exist for her, and damn, that burns. That fucking little voice in my head thinks this is a good moment to wonder if this is how she has felt all this time.
***
I’m not stalking her. Keeping an eye out for her isn’t the same, right?
She has a dark green suit on today, the skirt knee-length, her shirt with the top buttons undone, a barely-there cleavage, but suddenly my pants are too tight, and I’m sweating. My mouth waters just looking at her, just remembering kissing her, pressing against her soft curves.
She laughs at something that idiot from the Product Development department tells her, and it’s all I can do not to head over and throttle him. Motherfucking moron. He’s been staring at her tits all this time.
Perv.
Her mouth is deep ruby today, her eyes outlined in black. Silver earrings glint at her ears, her hair is swept back into a ponytail, and she’s the sexiest woman alive.
Not that it has anything to do with me. Not a damn thing.
I made sure of that.
She laughs again, and I grind my teeth, because I love the sound of her laughter, and I hate that it’s because of that Neanderthal piece of shit.
And not me.
What does he have on me? I observe him unobtrusively, sipping at the coffee I got from the machine. He’s shorter than me. Not very fit. And he has the ugliest mug I’ve ever seen.
Okay, maybe not, but in any case, his position in the company isn’t better than mine, and his car either, and he has a receding hairline.
So there.
I think I’m being fucking objective here. He’s got nothing on me. He can’t be that witty. I wish… I wish I made her laugh like this.
Goddammit.
Throwing my coffee into the trash, I kick at the machine viciously, nearly smashing the glass, before stalking away.
I have work to do, and I can’t stand the sight of him beside her for one more fucking minute.
Motherfucker.
***
I see her in passing time and again, but I’m so buried under work I don’t come up for air for days.
I dream about her. A lot. Her and Riddick.
Like this morning. Dreaming of our entwined bodies on my sheets. Of Riddick fucking me from behind while I pound into her, stroke after stroke of frantic need, wave after wave of mind-blowing pleasure, until I wake up with a strangled cry, coming all over my covers, lost in the memory of something that never happened.
How pathetic is that, huh?
Fucking pathetic, that’s how. As I shave, and shower, and dress, as I drive to work and walk into my office and sit down to start my day, the dream is all I think about.
The dream of being with her. And him. With them both. A fucking impossible dream, a fantasy that has my dick hard with desire and my heart hammering with emotion every damn night.
God, I need a stiff drink.
You just need to get laid, I tell myself as I gather my papers for another motherfucking meeting.
Or just head to the gym, work this obsession out of your system.
See, just because in the dream you feel so close to them doesn’t mean reality is like that. You know nothing about either one of them. Haven’t shared with them anything but a kiss, and in Riddick’s case a quick grope.
They don’t like you. It bears repeating: you’ve been a total asshole to them both. They probably hate your guts.
Then why does the thought of them make me feel warm and safe inside?
Don’t, Ryan. Just fucking don’t. This makes no sense. You are making no sense. Keep it up and you’ll get your very own straitjacket.
Don’t go looking for her during the day.
Don’t go looking for him during the evening.
Obeying myself shouldn’t be so hard. It’s logical. It’s what I’ve done all my adult life. I’m pretty damn sure it’s what’s kept me alive. No getting tangled with people. No stress.
No need to start drinking at nine AM.
I don’t go out for water or coffee or anything else that will allow me to catch any random glimpse of her.
The hours drag. I used to like my job, but lately I’ve grown to hate it, to hate this office, hate this breathless pace. Hate myself.
Back up. Everything’s okay. Let go.
Only letting go means relinquishing control, and control over myself is all that’s stopping me from marching out of here.
I don’t fucking need either of them. I’m fucking okay. I don’t need anyone.
My new mantra.
I’m already on the brink of shattering to pieces when I walk out of my office much, much later and see her talking with a guy. A different guy this time, Jamie from IT. Another loser. Another dimwitted asshole who thinks he has the right to talk to her like he owns her and stare at her tits like he’s seen her naked.
That’s my excuse for losing it, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.
By the time I stalk toward them, they have parted ways. She disappears around the corner of the reception hall, and he watches her go, a speculative look in his eye, when I punch him in the jaw.
He stumbles, but doesn’t fall. He swears at me, then punches me right back.
Totally didn’t see that coming, but I welcome the pain and the fury pouring out of me in punches and kicks. Cathartic violence, something I’d avoided just as long as I’d avoided coffee, alcohol and sex.
Goes to show how broken my control is. It’s in pieces. Nothing left of it.
Especially when instead of asking mysel
f what the fuck I’m doing, if this random guy will press charges and make me lose my fucking job, if I’m totally losing my mind… I think that I need to step up my game if I’m going to make this girl mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Zero-Fucks Chocolate
Brylee
Ryan is acting weird.
Okay, so Raina from the Marketing Department told me that his supervisor has heaped all her work on him pretending it’s to evaluate him for a promotion.
Ryan wouldn’t fall for the trick, would he? He’s a clever guy.
A clever asshole, and despite what I told Riddick about how deep in my heart I think he is a good person, I’m in doubt.
Anyway, he’s acting weird, stalking up and down the corridor or hanging around the coffee machine where his schedule never takes him because he doesn’t drink coffee.
And he drank coffee!
And gave the guy I was talking to, can’t even remember his name or anything else about him, the stink-eye. I wonder if they fought over a client.
He’s also been clumsier. He spilled coffee all over himself the other day, and today he’s sporting a black eye.
I mean… that’s Ryan! The guy who never gets into arguments, never gets physical with his colleagues. At the gym he’s friends with Rafe, the guy who runs the self-defense course, but never once did he join them. He doesn’t do fights.
He likes doing things on his own. He’s a quiet, careful person. I know him.
Or I thought I did.
He passes in front of the watercooler again, where I’m getting a glass of water, and ouch, his jaw is swollen, like somebody punched him.
It can’t be. Maybe he walked into something. Or fell.
I’m getting worried about him. This isn’t like him at all. He does look tired, I realize, turning away quickly when he pauses at the door of his office. It makes sense. He’s overworked. I wish we were friends so that he could tell me if there was anything else.
Friends. Ha. As if he’d want that.
As if I would.
I choke on my water.
Okay, be honest with yourself for once, Bry.
Fine. I don’t want to be friends and go out with him for a unicorn rainbow latte to discuss the latest Fifty Shades movie. No, what I want is for him to kiss me again. To touch me. He can’t be my pretend brother and do these things to me.
It’d be awkward.
As if it wasn’t already…
***
Trying not to think about Ryan is harder than I’d hoped. I arrange with Simone to meet at the gym in the afternoon, and otherwise keep my mind on work as much as possible.
I have a piece of the caramel cake I baked beside me. I tried eating it, but it’s hard.
Everything is hard today. The cake actually crunches.
Hm. I don’t remember anything crunchy in the recipe. Or salty.
Anyway.
I don’t see Ryan around, but I do spot Jamie from IT, the guy I was talking to the other day about a bug on my computer. When he turns to say hi, I see he’s sporting a black eye to match Ryan’s.
Curiouser and curiouser.
I open my mouth to ask what happened to him, but he shoots me an apprehensive look and hurries away.
Huh.
Do I look fearsome today or what? Must be my new power suit. Black pencil skirt, black blazer, pale pink shirt and the cutest high heels.
Lifting my chin up, I carry my folder back to my office and sit down, frowning.
That was really strange. I mean, the fact that Ryan had been staring at Jamie the other day and today they’re both bruised. As if they fought.
Which is nonsense. Why would they? As if Ryan…
Nah. Never. Whatever for?
I should just stop paying attention to Ryan, let him be. Leave him in peace, which is what he obviously wants.
Stop thinking of him, Brylee!
Well, that’s easier said than done, as it turns out… because for some reason he’s always around. What’s up with that, huh?
How’s a girl supposed to stop obsessing when the man of her dreams keeps turning up wherever she goes?
And speaking of the man of her dreams… Why does Riddick keep turning up in my thoughts, too, and why oh why, Good Lord, do I keep dreaming of them together?
It’s so hot. So shockingly exciting I can’t even. Since when am I obsessed with two guys together? Together, and with me, all three of us kissing and touching and…you know. In my dream, it’s so much better than anything I’ve ever tried.
For the first time ever, I’m not sure this is something I can discuss with my mom.
***
Speaking of the devil.
Ryan ambushes me by the reception desk as I wait to talk to our secretary about my vacation time.
Okay, “ambush” may be excessive and sound deliberate, whereas truth be told, I’m not sure what’s going on. The thing is, he’s suddenly there as I wait for Caitlyn, our receptionist, to check on her computer how many vacation days I have left for this year, tapping on his phone and looking preoccupied.
Or angry. I’m not sure which. His brows are drawn over his eyes, and his jaw is clenched. Maybe he’s losing in Candy Crush. Maybe his schedule was disturbed, God forbid.
Or his date for the evening canceled. Just because he won’t go out with me doesn’t mean he won’t see another woman. God knows he left a trail of broken hearts here at the office with his one-night stands.
Funny how I only just realized the meaning of this information that I’ve been gathering for a while. Ryan just doesn’t do relationships. How did I miss it?
And also funny how it bothers me to think of him with another woman. Or man? Anyone. It’s a sting to my heart, imagining him kissing another, touching another. Giving another his undivided attention, the heat of his brilliant gaze, that wry, sexy grin.
On cue, he punches a number into his phone, lifts it to his ear and turns slightly away from me. “Hello, Mabel? It’s Ryan. Ryan Dawson. How are you?”
Heat shoots through my chest. I knew it. I knew he was arranging to meet another.
“When can you come over? Yeah, today is fine. Tonight.”
Shit. I toss my hair over my shoulder, my ears burning with a mixture of humiliation and fury. How dare he do this right beside me? Is he doing it on purpose, to put me down?
Well, it’s working. I never thought I was the prettiest of girls, never thought I was perfect, but now I feel…like trash.
I’ve been so stupid to lay my hopes on him. Riddick was right. When a guy acts like an asshole, then he is an asshole.
“No, you don’t have to call. Just ring the doorbell. Thanks for coming over.”
And with other girls he’s apparently nice and polite. Which makes me feel even worse. I baked for him, for crying out loud, and brought him my creations in cute boxes with bows, and he all but threw me out of his office.
Worse part is that my eyes burn, and my lips tremble.
What is this? Now, Bry. You’re not a little girl anymore. You’ve fought worse disappointments. You can’t let something like this break you.
Remember: you don’t love him.
Remember that.
Weird how I have to convince myself of something I was so sure of not so long ago.
He disconnects the call and lowers the phone, glancing at me. His expression seems challenging, and I scowl.
“Mabel?” I scoff. “What kind of name is that?”
He blinks, his face losing the tight look from before. “What?”
“I hope you didn’t invent this woman you’re seeing tonight just for my sake, because I have to tell you, I’m not impressed. Mabel doesn’t sound remotely sexy, so if you wanted to make me jealous, good luck with that!”
His eyes widen. God, they’re gorgeous. Green like a tropical forest with golden flecks.
“Mabel,” he says slowly, “is my elderly landlady. There was a leak in the bathroom. Is that a problem?”
Shit. Shit!
“No problem. Whatsoever. At all.” I actually take a step back. What possessed me to open my mouth in the first place? “It’s a fine name. I guess.”
His mouth twitches. The beginnings of one of those devastatingly sexy grins make their appearance, and the floor is sinking under my feet.
Dangerous. Proximity alert. Move away in orderly fashion.
As I turn and go, I do my best to forget what a fool I made of myself just now. It’s all I can do not to run.
***
Time to go meet Simone. I need to vent and rant and ask questions and maybe wail a little about everything that’s been going on—including my gay erotica dreams. Simone will set me straight, I’m sure.
Or send me completely off the deep end. It’s either/or. A try will tell, and at this point I have little sanity to lose. I’m down to the last drops, really.
Mabel. His landlady. God. If he’d done it on purpose, it would have been brilliant. A brilliant way to make me insane with jealousy.
But of course it wasn’t on purpose. Why would he do something like that on purpose? He could have had me any time this past year. I all but threw myself in his arms, damsel-in-distress style, so many times. He made it perfectly clear he isn’t interested in catching me.
Literally or metaphorically.
Jesus, Bry.
Let. Him. Go.
Besides… Riddick. The thought of him makes me feel happy, and I focus on that. He likes me and has no problem telling me, and showing me. The memory of kissing him and touching him, of him touching me, makes my heart race and my skin flush.
Trying to forget about one boy who makes me stupid with lust is to think of another who makes me just as excited.
Why, oh why do I have to want them both so much? This is crazy.
Remember the difference, I tell myself as I call Simone to let her know I’m on my way. You like Riddick. Ryan is an ass. Riddick has a depth to him, brought by pain, that draws you in.
Ryan is a shallow rich boy.
And what about your priorities? Your rational choices? Your decision not to fall for anyone but for the Right Guy?
Yeah, about that…
Have I mentioned I’ve no clue what I’m doing anymore?
